A long day of comic shops and used bookstores is ahead of me today, as I voyage out in search of some new reading material, trading in the old for the new, and hopefully make a few bucks folding money in the bargain, too.

My lifelong interest in comics has almost always had trading stuff in as a significant element. I’ve never been a comics hoarder in the sense of keeping everything I buy, and it’s impossible to be certain before reading something that I’ll want to always keep it in my permanent collection, so sooner or later the cast-offs and not-quites begin to pile up, and eventually it hits a critical mass and I’m off to the shops to see what I can swap for cash or credit.

In times of plenty, of course, credit is king. Stores always give a higher dollar amount when you ask for credit, since the store stock you are using, say, 50 dollars to acquire likely cost them no more than 25 dollars, assuming they bought it outright from a wholesaler or other seller or customer. If what you want in trade was the product of one of their previous trade-for-credit swaps, their margin of profit (or benefit, since no cash is necessarily involved) rises even higher.

In times of want, which for myself now is definitely one of those times, cash is of course preferable. I’m not too proud to tell you I’ve traded in comics and graphic novels and even “real” books for cash to make up a shortfall in the rent, cover grocery expenses, or pay for a doctor’s office co-pay. Being someone whose life pretty much revolves around books, they are the primary thing of value that I possess, and sadly the first thing that has to go when the financial shithammer falls.

The earliest trade-in I can remember was at a store in St. Augustine, Florida, probably when I was 12 or 13, in the late 1970s. I had discovered a shop specializing in old coins inside some gigantic indoor shopping mall that, in my memory at least, possessed Spanish architecture and seemed cavernous in its aspect. I remember hauling boxes and boxes of unwanted superhero comics to this dealer and trading them in for, it seems to me, something very close to full guide value. I can’t remember if I got cash or trade from this dealer, all I really remember about it was that there were a lot of Bill Mantlo Incredible Hulk issues in the boxes I hauled in that day, and that when I left, whether fat with cash or loaded up with comics (I honestly can’t remember), I was definitely flush with a powerful feeling of success. I had taken comics I no longer needed or wanted (I’ve said this before, but Mantlo’s Hulk seemed awesome at age 10 and dull as dirt by age 12; this is not a slam against Mantlo, but rather a reflection of how my tastes were changing and becoming more sophisticated as I grew older), and turned them into a happiness tool. From that day on, trading in unwanted comics for money or other comics (many of which eventually, inevitably also turn out later to be unwanted and thus further trade fodder) became a regular part of my existence. It happens less frequently than brushing my teeth, but more often than going out to the movies.

Becoming a writer about comics in my early 30s resulted in the amount of unwanted comics in my possession increasing by at least a factor of four. No longer was I simply disposing of unwise purchases, but now comics, graphic novels and related ephemera were appearing in my mailbox and on my doorstep with alarming regularity. Any comics critic will tell you that the bad outweighs the good by at least a 25-to-1 ratio, and sometimes it seems more like 100-to-1. And being the lover of books and all things paper and impermanent that I am, I hate to throw away anything I buy or receive in the mail. Part of the thrill of trading comics in to a dealer is knowing that someone, somewhere may find a happy home for my cast-off orphan. In the decade I have been receiving review copies from creators and publishers, I think I have thrown away, just outright tossed in the trash, only two comics. One was called Americanjism; the other was some amateurish, nasty effort about a female superhero whose origin is that she was violently raped. Both were so vile and nihilistic that I felt compelled to remove them from the worldwide reading stream, and into the trash they went.

But those are the exceptions. As a rule, I regularly feel a twinge of regret in giving up my comics and books. Paradoxically, the regret is strongest when the books are given up for want of cash for some important expense. I suppose that’s because those are the times I really look to see what I have of value that I can spare in the name of making right whatever emergent situation has presented itself. But always, in every case, whether it’s for money or in trade for more comics, there’s that spark of hope that the books will find new life in the hands of another reader, someone for whom the material will be more suitable, more thrilling, and more permanent. Whatever the reason for casting them off, and whatever their particular character flaws, I always hope my orphans find a welcome spot to settle in, and be appreciated in a way that I have failed to accomplish.

— Alan David Doane

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